


Really something

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon Compliant, FLUFF IS HARD BUT I TRIED, Fluff, I Tried, M/M, Snow, Winter, and it's not even that fluffy, canonverse, like actually this is the fluffiest thing i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:23:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2847575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Oasis child, born and so wild<br/>Don't I know you better than the rest<br/>All deception, all deception from you.</i>
</p><p>- Zebra, Beach House </p><p>JM Secret Santa Gift for Voddt on tumblr! Although fluff isn't my forte (blood and pain and angst, give it to me and I will RUN with it), Smitten!Jean was really fun to do! </p><p>Floxi, I hope you like it, and I hope your Christmas is beautiful and full of love and joy. <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Really something

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Voddt](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Voddt).



The snow drops over their training camp overnight, all at once.

Heavy flakes tumble down from the black sky, carpeting the stiff frozen fields, coating the rooftops and doorsteps. Connie’s screech of horror is what the 104th boys wake up to the next morning, and soon the cabin is full of disgusted complaints as they stampede to the windows to gape in horror at the good four feet of snow draped over the ground. 

It’s the worst winter they’ve had in years, and as a result, Shadis gives them the day off. They’ve deserved it, after all, but it’s a practical decision, as well; by the time most of the snow has been cleared away, the sun will already have set, and training after dark always results in nightmarish confusion.

Eren throws up his hands as the door closes behind their instructor, a blast of cold air leaving them shivering and hissing curses under their breath. “Well, great. This is gonna be _impossible_ to use maneuver gear in--”

“Shit,” mutters Reiner, running his hands through his short blond hair. “Even if we have today off, we’re still gonna freeze our asses off during training tomorrow--”

“It’s so beautiful,” Marco says.

Everyone turns to stare at him-- Jean included-- in disbelief, but Marco, still gripping the windowsill, is too busy gazing at the white-covered fields to notice.

“It looks like a big, white blanket-- it’s really pretty...don’t you think?” Marco continues, voice breathlessly happy, and Eren snorts.

“Yeah, whatever. Just wait until you get _out_ there, and then we’ll see if you still think--”

“Hey,” Jean snaps, defensive at once when he sees Marco's expression waver. “Leave him alone, Jaeger. Not everyone has to share your opinion, you know.”

Eren rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else. From the window, Marco smiles at Jean in gratitude, and Jean scowls, and stares at the floor. He doesn’t want to think about it, but there’s no doubt in his mind. 

Marco looks at the snow with the same softness that he looks at Jean.

The boys begin to disperse, each one chattering to another about what they’ll use the day off for, and Marco catches Jean’s hand as he turns away. 

“Thanks for sticking up for me,” he says. He’s still smiling that easy smile; Jean wants to punch it off his face or kiss him until the smile is a laugh, and he’s furiously stuck, immobile, between the two. 

“Whatever,” he replies at last, and knocks Marco’s grip away. The freckled boy follows him back to his bunk all the same, keeping up easily even as Jean lengthens his strides. 

“Do you wanna go out?” he asks, and Jean chokes, then stutters, whirling on him.

“Wha-- excuse me?” 

Marco repeats himself, brow creasing slightly as he takes in Jean’s expression. “Do you wanna go out? Outside, in the snow…? Jean?”

Jean mentally punches himself, clears his throat. “Hah. Right.” But how can he say no, with the hopeful way Marco’s biting his lip, another half-smile already tugging at the corners of his lips? “Well, I mean...I guess we could,” he relents, “if you really wanted to.” 

“We never had this much snow in Jinae,” Marco replies, his face lighting up at Jean’s words. “Maybe a few inches, but this-- this is _amazing--_ just wait, I’ll grab my boots--”

There are few things, Jean learns that day, that Marco loves more than winter. 

The first thing the freckled boy does, when they escape the enclosed cabin and burst out into the cold fresh air, is throw himself into the first snowbank he sees, and spread his arms and legs out.

“I did this with my sisters and brothers,” Marco explains, laughing at Jean’s puzzled expression. “You’ll see what it is in a second—” 

He kicks out his limbs in a steady rhythm, carving divets in the wet snow. When he tires he grins at Jean, still standing over him, and stretches out an arm. “Help me up, okay?”

Jean does, grabbing his hand tight and hoisting him to a standing position again. Marco tiptoes around his creation with ease, hands on Jean’s waist to steady himself, careful not to ruin the lines he’s carved into the bank. “Look,” he says, his smile blossoming over his face again. “Snow angel.” 

“Yeah,” Jean says after a second, unable to help the sharpness in his voice, the scowl on his face. There’s too much inside him, these days, too many words rocketing around inside him, and he doesn’t know how to let them out. He wants to tell Marco that it’s beautiful, that he wants to make one, too, that it’s really something. He wants to say, _that’s really something, Marco._

_And, you’re really something, too._

“You’re covered in snow,” he says instead.

“Worth it,” Marco replies, but he lets go of his waist, and Jean misses the contact. “Come on. Let’s take a walk, and I’ll show you something else.” 

Marco talks about the snow the way he talks about sunsets and the future. 

Winter, he tells Jean, sparks cherished memories of his. Memories of his younger siblings trundling through the snow, of building crumbling snow people outside of their farm house, of drawing his brothers and sisters closer to the blazing flames crackling in the stone fireplace inside. Curling cold fingers to relieve them, sipping hot tea from the chipped mugs…

In Marco’s mind, there is nothing better than the cold. 

“It’s the best excuse to be close to those you care about,” he says, smiling again, talking about the snow like he’s talking about sunsets, about the future, about Jean. 

And as they stand there, together, in the snow, somehow Marco’s hand find it’s way to Jean’s, fingers tangling in his, locking together there, his thumb stroking the bare skin of the back of Jean’s hand. 

“You didn’t bring gloves,” he says. 

Jean swallows hard, and hopes that Marco doesn’t notice. 

“Uh,” he says. “So, what else did you want to show me—” 

Marco kisses him. 

His free hand sliding up into Jean’s hair, tugging him closer—his mouth is soft, his fingers sinking into Jean’s hair, and Jean thinks maybe he could do this forever, kissing Marco, just stand here and kiss him until the snow stops and then starts up again, buries them. 

Marco pulls away, and rests his forehead against Jean’s. 

“That,” he says. “The thing I wanted to show you, that was it. I mean, a lot of other things, too—the way you can walk on ice if it’s thick and if you’re careful enough, and the way you can catch snowflakes on your tongue—but also that. Mostly that. You’re blushing, Jean.” 

He is. “I’m cold,” Jean lies. 

“It’s okay,” Marco replies softly. “I’m warm. C’mere.” 

He pulls Jean against him and Jean puts his head on Marco’s shoulder: Marco who’s always been just a little bit taller than him, Marco who looks at Jean the way he looks at snow, and Jean has never imagined that he would matter to anyone the way he matters to Marco. 

“Marco,” Jean says suddenly, mouth dry. 

“Yes, Jean?” 

It’s more than the fact that he matters, Jean knows. It’s that Marco matters too, to him, more than snow or sunsets or the future. He doesn’t know how to smile the easy smile that Marco always gives to him. He doesn’t know how to make snow angels. The words coil and tense in his stomach and his throat and his _heart—_

“You’re really something,” Jean whispers, stomach twisting nervously and his voice shaky, and somewhere within that simple truth Marco hears the other truths, too. 

He squeezes Marco’s hand, once, tight, and Marco squeezes back, steady, and soft. 

And they stay there, watching the dark winter sky fall, for a long time.


End file.
